The Children of Skyrim
by Gumdrop Boo - Ch4rms
Summary: They were not but a passing thought a few years ago, but now that they are older, the children of Skyrim may in fact, be a very real factor in deciding the fate of their land. Some have become runaway mages, others are talented in the crafts of their forefathers, and there are ones who have fallen into the lives of thieves or assassins.
1. Agni

Agni was startled out of her sleep by an urgent shout of her name. She recognized Sissel's voice before she could properly see the blonde. Agni blinked rapidly to make out the figure in her chambers, to make sure it wasn't a lingering dream. It would have been pure darkness if not for the cool arcane glow wreathing around Sissel's raised hand. Agni would have guessed Sissel was going to wake her with a blast of mage light but had decided against it.

"What is it?"

"There's a man at the entrance. He requested to see you and said it was a matter of urgency," Sissel said, a tone of worry was evident as she spoke.

"Who is he?"

"He didn't give a name."

Agni frowned and turned down her quilts, stepping to the floor with a sudden surge of curiosity. Her feet found her boots and slipped in.

"Will you go with me to see him?"

It was rather alarming not to mention suspicious that a man would come calling in the dead of night to the College of Winterhold. People in general didn't want to have anything to do with the college unless they had an item that needed to be enchanted. If he was a prospective student there should be no reason he couldn't wait to daybreak to try his test of merit.

Then again he wasn't just a regular person. He had asked for Agni specifically. She had never told anyone where she had gone after running from the boggy swamps of Hjaalmarch, but it wasn't hard to guess.

"I'm rather tired," Sissel admitted, catching herself in a yawn. It meant the young mage was not planning on accompanying her. They weren't supposed to be out this late anyway which led Agni to internally question how and why Sissel knew of a stranger at the metaphorical gates of the college. That was a question for another time.

"Fine, stay—but you will be to blame if I suddenly disappear."

Sissel gave a tired grin, "You needn't worry about him, he seemed harmless—besides you can just light him on fire if tries to do anything unsavory."

Agni returned the smile before pulling her apprentice robes over her head. After, she grabbed a small blue bottle off the night stand, uncorked it, and swiftly drank the contents. The strong taste of mint stung her throat but the warming effect took to her blood immediately, preparing her for the icy and relentless weather of northern Skyrim.

She had not yet taken to the art of alteration through her gifts, or rather was very behind on her studies—but she was fair with destruction magic, specifically fire, and easily re-ignited a torch that had been put out for the night. She grabbed it and left the hall of attainment alone.

The wind whistled sharply past her ears when she emerged outside; the sky was in a rare state of clarity and the aurora was a deep green to violet gradient.

Down below the walkways, stood a figure also holding a torch. She thought perhaps he was a courier, perhaps Falion had decided to forgive her for disobeying him three years ago—but the urgency of the matter worried her too. A letter from the man who fostered her could probably wait until morning. Someone must have paid the courier a great amount of gold to get them to travel at night.

"Agni?" she heard a soft baritone say her name as she approached the entrance of the college bridges.

She held her torch out at arm's length, taken aback, because a courier wouldn't have used her name to address her and not in such a familiar tone.

He looked uncomfortable and had his arms wrapped around himself. He wore many layers, it was obvious he wasn't used to being this far north. He was also younger than Agni had assumed from what Sissel had said.

"What do you want with me?"

"Do you know where Joric is?"

"Joric?" she was even more confused. The only Joric she had ever known was a boy she was childhood friends with. They had both grown and gone their separate ways years ago.

"Yes, Joric Ravencrone—do you know where he is?"

"I haven't seen him in years."

There had been an anxiety in his voice; she could see his whole body sigh with disappointment and his jaw clench to keep from chattering from the cold. She stepped closer to see him better. He was a strapping lad. He had broad shoulders one would have working with supplying docks or lumber mills, or even plowing fields. He was definitely not a courier.

"Who are you?"

"You don't recognize me Agni?" his head was still angled toward the ground but his eyes met her gaze.

She had run from Morthal as soon as she had turned old enough and powerful enough to know she could get to the college on her own—as a fifteen-year-old girl that was determined to master her true potential in the arcane arts. She had little chances of meeting anyone new outside the college. It was too dark to recognize any features on him.

She raised a brow and ignited her hand with a small flame since the torch didn't do a good job of lighting. She held the power until it was a bright ball of heat in the palm.

She raised her hand and he flinched as if she would set him on fire but it provided more light to actually see his face. Once she saw, she knew his identity, though he had grown much more than she would have imagined in three years.

"You are far from home, Virkmund."

He flashed a quick grin at her recognition, "May I come in?"

Agni felt a bit guilty since he did look cold but shook her head vehemently, "No, the mages don't like strangers."

"I've known you since we were nine years old—"

She cut him off sharply, "You're still a stranger to _them_. We can talk at the Frozen Hearth."

The fire in her palm diminished and she went back to using the light of the torch since she didn't want to be questioned by any guard. If more people were awake they might have given her sidelong glances for wearing mage robes but the dismal town of Winterhold was sparse of any life at the early hour.

Almost immediately after entering she was engulfed in a hug, pulled tightly against Virkmund's chest. "It's good to see you again, Agni. You have been missed."

"_Mmf_, thanks Virk," she said muffled and a bit surprised at his actions. He let her go and she gave him a smile of appreciation.

The Frozen Harth was cozy, a fire burned at the center of the room. She assumed that Virkmund had already bought a room for the night until she saw him look around the place like he had never seen it before.

"Can I help you?" the proprietor asked. The reception area was shadowed and the voice made Agni jump somewhat-she didn't expect anyone else to be awake.

"He needs a room," Agni nodded her head toward Virkmund.

"Only he?"

She glared at the innkeeper's insinuation. Though it was fair—he had witnessed them walk in after midnight and embrace.

"Only he."

Virkmund took a moment before fumbling with a coin pouch that was tied to his belt and dumped it's contents onto the table. He counted out ten coins and put the small remainder back into the bag.

Once they were inside the small room, Agni closed the door and then regarded the man, "What is this all about—what's happened to Joric?"

"He's vanished. No one has seen him for a week. The Jarl sent me to find you."

Agni didn't understand the correlation. Joric was the Jarl's younger brother who had always been prone to...visions. She had been a playmate of Joric's when they were kids. He would often blame Agni's foster father for bad deeds but could never back his claims—most of the time he didn't even seem like himself when he went into those lucid mumblings. She, Virkmund, and the noble boy had chased each other around the town's surrounding bogs and blooming deathbells in good fun almost every day when they were children.

But then she left. Falion, the closest thing she had ever had to a father—he had never wanted her to join the college but she yearned to know more. She could conjure but had little to no knowledge of the other schools. Also Morthal was a small place, and as she grew older her home seemed more and more cramped. There were little to no opportunities in Morthal. Opportunity, to her, was at the college. She glanced at Virkmund and saw his downcast expression and it didn't even occur to her until that moment that she had probably hurt both boys by leaving without a goodbye.

"Why me though?" Agni asked.

"The last vision he had—they say he mentioned your name and that Skyrim was in grave danger."


	2. Dagny

_The Lady __Dagnessa__ of __Whiterun__ and Thane __Joric__ of __Hjaalmarch__ cordially invite thee to attend their __joyous__ ceremony of matrimony outside the Temple of __Kynareth__, under the __Gildergreen__, the 25__th__ of First Seed._

* * *

The parchment was fine, the lettering was elegant, and the ink was permanent.

Seventy-five invitations had been sent out to all the noble families of Skyrim months before and it was supposed to be the wedding of the year.

Seventy-five guests had been very disappointed as well as most of the city that turned out to watch.

The bride however—the bride couldn't have been happier and at the same time completely mortified.

That was why she had locked herself away in her room in Dragonsreach, continuously demanding bottles of alcohol and of course, all the succulent sweet rolls she could stuff herself with now that she didn't have to watch her figure for a wedding gown.

She regarded the invitation in her hand with a half laugh, half sneer and crumpled it—then threw into the fire that crackled in a hearth at the center of the room.

Who did Joric Ravencrone think he was to abandon her the day of _her_ wedding?

He was scum. She had never fancied him—he was always a strange lad but he seemed smart although sometimes incoherent. He mumbled quite a bit and had a history of being prone to illness. She hardly even liked him as a person, even when she was first introduced to him when she was twelve. Their marriage was supposed to be a political one, to tie the neighboring holds together as allies. They were both second children to their line, not to inherit any titles nor thrones—just unlucky ones to be stuck with each other for the good of Skyrim.

The parchment quickly curled and charred under the flames. The ink was not so permanent anymore.

She sauntered around her room in her undergarments and her long elfish robe, a bit off-blance, but thirsty for more liquid that washed her thoughts away.

She grabbed the most recent bottle that she had been drinking from and poured some more into a silver goblet that was standing next to it. She squinted and read the label—it was a Surilie Brothers Vintage from 4E 29.

She raised a brow, impressed that the bottle had survived the Great War and wondered how many Septims it had set back her father's coffer to obtain. Those in court may have called her many things, but stupid was not one of them—she paid attention in her history lessons. She bet half of the Whiterun nobility—including her own brothers couldn't recite what years the Great War had taken place.

She set the wine bottle down and brought the goblet to her lips. It was a dark red, rich, beverage that had a worthy taste of its cost.

A few sudden poundings on the door interrupted her solace.

"What?!" she barked, not in the mood to neither see anyone nor be seen.

"Dagny, you can't stay in there forever!"

It was Frothar, her elder brother. He was the lucky one who was heir to Whiterun. His betrothal hadn't been such a disaster from the start either. He had successfully been wed a year prior to a daughter of one of the Cyrodilic Noble Houses.

She hated being told what she could and couldn't do, especially by Frothar. He wasn't the Jarl yet, "Yes I can!"

Then there came the sound of a key in the lock. She immediately dropped her goblet, paying no mind to the spill and ran to the door, putting her weight against it.

She felt the door open slightly, and pushed back on it using her whole side, "Go away Frothar!"

"Father said it was time for you to come out. People are starting to worry!"

She doubted it. They were just gossips and bores. He really meant they were beginning to 'talk' about her sulking behavior. He must have realized what she was thinking and amended his claim.

"_He_ is starting to worry!"

"Tell him I will come out when that scum Joric's head is on a pike!"

"Dagny!" Frothar sounded a bit horrified at her ultimatum and let up on trying to force open her door.

His lapse in opposing force caused her continual bracing to slam the door shut again. She hastily locked it and slid down to a crouch against it since she knew Frothar still had a key. He must have swiped it from one of the maids.

He didn't try opening the door again but he was still on the other side, "You don't mean it do you? Do you want to cause another civil war?"

The 'civil war' was still happening. Sort of. The Empire had taken Skyrim after the beheading of Ulfric Stormcloak but there were still pockets of Stormcloak rebels here and there, especially on the eastern half of the country. She had seen the maps of the camps in the war room, fewer and fewer each year.

She twisted her mouth unpleasantly; she didn't see how a war of any sort could possibly break out with Hjaalmarch—the hold's capital was barely larger than a village. Whiterun may have been a skeever-hole of a city but it had double the forces.

Frothar must have taken her silence as a '_yes_' so he said, "You know, Joric may have just been abducted or eaten by a saber cat on his way here. If it makes you feel any better, Father hired some of the companions to go looking for him."

Dagny sighed and rolled her eyes because those scenarios _did_ make a lot of sense. Joric was hardly what she would call a warrior, he was easy pickings for a bandit or vicious animal. Joric's sister, Idgrod the Younger—Jarl of Hjaalmarch, should have sent more guards with him. It didn't make her feel any better though. It'd be better for her if he was dead.

It had been a week and no one had seen the young man, nor any sign of his entourage of guards or even his horse. She could tell that Joric liked her about as much as she did him, but he wouldn't have risked incensing his family or hers to break their betrothal.

"You are not the one people will blame for this. If anything they will feel sorry for you," he tried to convince her, targeting the real cause of her not wanting to leave her room.

No they wouldn't. Dagny knew she she had never been a sweet girl. She was rather blunt and had no patience for servants who couldn't do their jobs, no respect for courtiers who obeyed the Jarl's every whim to win favor, no love for a man who couldn't love her first.

"I don't want their pity," she mumbled and shoved her head into her hands.

"So are you going to come out little sister?"

It had been a few moments but Frothar was persistent. The Jarl could have sent anyone to fetch her—Gerda, Fianna, Proventus, even Nelkir. She knew Frothar had better things to do than try to coax her out of her room. It was a task not for the faint of heart, but out of all options of those to convince her, Balgruuf the Greater knew she was more likely to acquiesce to her elder brother. Her father must have _really_ wanted her back in public to make Frothar halt his daily business and try, but not enough to come himself—

So she contested it with slurred words—"What'appens if I don't?"

"Then father will have Irileth break in your door, carry you out over her shoulder, and deposit you in the great hall no matter what state you are in," she could hear a trace of amusement in her brother's voice. She didn't find it funny at all but believed the Jarl's housecarl would do just that.

She sighed obnoxiously again for good measure and stood. To her, the room was blurry and unstable. "Verrry well, I will agree to father's wishes but I 'ave to get dressed first—send Fianna."

She heard him leave; the footsteps of his boots audibly diminishing down the corridor.

She turned as she took off her robe to prepare for more suitable clothes for public and a cold, wet sensation brushed her bare toes. The wine she spilled had run across the floor in a long puddle. She cocked her head to the side, studying it while she waited for the maid. If it stayed any longer, the wood would stain red where it sat.

She knew it was just spilled wine, and perhaps it was just the mild intoxication that altered her view but it was unnerving how much it looked like spilled blood.


	3. Dorthe

_Up, down, up , down, up, down…_

And so the familiar rhythm went as Dorthe's foot glided over the pedal of the grindstone.

A grating noise was released as she set the side of a steel sword into the wheel. A few sparks flew up and then dispersed into he air before disappearing altogether. The sword was an order for Faendal, the resident Bosmer of Riverwood. She had forged the weapon herself from scratch and was exceedingly proud of it. She especially loved crafting the hilt, carving out an intricate design in the metal.

Her foot lifted off the pedal and the wheel gradually slowed as she examined her work to see if it was sharp enough to be completed.

"Dorthe!"

She looked up and saw that look in her father's eye—he was displeased about something.

"Your mother told you to wash up near an hour ago for supper and you are still out here lollygaggin'," he threw his arms out and gestured toward the grindstone.

She looked around, it _was_ darker than she had remembered but it didn't seem like a _whole hour_ had passed. The long shadows that had been there before had all been swallowed by the one shadow of the Throat of The World.

"Oh papa, I just wanted to finish Faendal's sword—and look!" she held it up with a broad smile, "it's done!"

She knew that her father couldn't keep angry at her for too long when her excuse for bad behavior involved smithing. Her mother however, could be angry all day and then some when she caught Dorthe in the forge instead of practicing her stitchery.

Alvor nodded knowingly and took it, laying it on the workbench while he found some cloth to wrap it in, "We can deliver it to him tomorrow, but for now you need to wash up."

Her father had a bucket of water and a leaf of soap on the porch area meant for her to use. He gave her a pat on the shoulder before going back inside.

Dorthe rubbed at some sweat that had gathered on her brow, then looking at her forearm, saw there was metallic smudging. Her face must have been filthy. She began to take off the gloves and smithing apron she was wearing while she was working—loving the smell of the oiled skin they were made from, ripe with a smoky perfume that one could only get at a blacksmith's forge.

She set them aside and scrambled around the corner to wash up. Lathering her hands with the soap, she applied some to her face and then cupped them full of water and splashed the suds away. Some of the townspeople were walking into the Sleeping Giant across the street to eat or socialize. Her mother had probably prepared roast goat, as she had seen Sigrid buy some raw goat meat from Orgnar earlier in the day. Dorthe could go for some grilled leeks as well.

When she entered her home she saw her mother, Sigrid, was wearing a scowl and sitting at her place at the table and was already eating. Alvor was slicing into a baked potato. Dorthe looked down to her own setting which featured, as she had guessed—leg of roast goat. She was a bit disappointed at the absence of grilled leeks but knew she shouldn't complain. Baked potatoes were fine, just not her favorite.

"You were supposed to be washed up and ready for dinner an hour ago," Sigrid nagged.

"Papa informed me," Dorthe nodded apologetically as she took her seat at the table.

"Don't get smart!"

"I'm not. I'm really sorry but I just lost track of time was all," she replied with sincerity. She didn't intentionally try to annoy her mother but ever since she was a girl her interests and her mother's interests _for her_ couldn't have been farther apart.

There was a knock on the door.

"Oh now what?" Sigrid snapped.

"Who has the audacity to interrupt people at supper time?" Alvor wondered.

Dorthe could think of a few. Namely Frodnar, who would knock on people's doors and then run away before they answered them for his own amusement. However Frodnar and his family had been run out of town as the war was ending. His whole family supported the Stormcloacks and they couldn't be welcomed anymore in Riverwood if the small village didn't want to be targeted by Thalmor for lingering Talos worship. She hadn't seen Frodnar for a long time now and missed participating in his pranks.

The knock came again.

Sigrid nodded for Dorthe to answer since she was closest.

She did as she was expected—expecting nothing in return but for maybe Embry asking for a spare bottle of Nord Mead as he did sometimes.

As the door opened, she had to stifle a cry of surprise.

Three Thalmor Judiciars were on her doorstep. They stared at her with not so much as a smile in greeting.

"Can I help you?" she asked. The nervous note in her voice was all but obvious. She had heard stories of the Thalmor, knew what they had done in the past and didn't agree with it personally. Her family had supported the Empire, gave up worship of Talos even—and the Thalmor supported the empire so they were all on the same side—right? If so, then why did she feel so unnerved at the sight of these tall, slightly golden-skinned strangers?

The front-most Judiciar, who wore wizard's robes, pulled his lips back into a serpentine smile, "We are looking to speak to Dorthe of Riverwood, they said she lived here."

"I am Dorthe," she seemed to let out a breath as she said her own name.

Her father appeared behind her, "What do you want with my daughter?"

"I need to ask her a few questions."

Alvor held a level stare—then after a moment said, "Of course, would you and your...associates like to join us for supper?"

Dorthe noticed her mother's gaze start to panic, she didn't have enough leg of goat prepared for more than the three of them.

The Judiciar's smiled remained but his eyes squinted slightly, silently informing them that he'd rather not. He didn't look like someone who would come to Riverwood by their own choosing and it bothered her that they had questions for her because she couldn't possibly think of a reason why.

As far as she knew, most Thalmor agents had departed Skyrim after the civil war—and only a few remained to eradicate Talos worship once and for all.

"No, thank you. Outside is suitable enough—it should only take a few moments," the tone he used also indicated he wanted to question her without the presence of her family.

Dorthe didn't want to be alone with them but Alvor shrugged helplessly as they led her to the porch area. She sat down on one of the benches along the side of the house. The Justiciars in armor stood on either side of her and it didn't help her growing worry about their intentions.

She did have to admire the armor though, it was Elvin of course, and theygreen-golden sheen was apparent even as darkness fell. There was a natural luminescence about the armor and she figured the reason was because it was forged with moonstone. She couldn't make Elvin weapons or armor yet, but had hoped to when she was older.

The Justiciar had noticed Dorthe's attention on the armor and cleared his throat, "Very well—first we must ask you if you believe that Talos is a divine. Do you believe that Tiber Septim ascended to godhood?"

She shook her head, "No, he was a mortal emperor in the third era."

The High Elf nodded, satisfied at her answer.

"Do you associate with or personally know any Stormcloack soldiers?"

She shook her head, "No."

Something changed her interrogator's expression. It was a negative, judgmental kind of look. She looked away because his gaze made her uncomfortable.

A rising glow appeared out of the corner of her eye, and before she could make any protest the Thalmor agent released a ball of energy that shot into her chest, and coursed through her—seeming to suspend all activity in her muscles. She slumped over, terrified. She couldn't scream, she couldn't move her eyes to see what was happening, she couldn't move any part of her own body. She was paralyzed.

She felt her hands being shackled in front of her and was lifted up—carried in one of the armored Altmer's arms since she couldn't walk on her own.

Her lips couldn't even move to demand why she was being taken away, _where_ she was being taken or _what had she done so wrong_? Her parents would no doubt be looking for her in a few moments but even then it would be too late. She was being kidnapped. She saw the Inn pass by to her right as she was whisked out of Riverwood. They were going North.

After a few minutes of no feeling, something tingled in her arm, and she tried wiggling her fingers. Her pinky finger was the only one that would move. She tried to speak but only a garbled sound escaped.

The sound, nonetheless, did catch the attention of the one who held her, "Are you able to move?"

Dorthe willed any part of her that would obey to hurt him. Her leg swung up but didn't do any harm but she relished the startled look that it caused him.

He dropped her at once. She rolled, her legs could move and bend but her top half seemed to still be immobile.

Suddenly there was that same glow, right next to her temple and she heard the Thalmor wizard, "If you scream, if you try to run away—I will hit you with more paralysis magic. Do you understand?"

She nodded weakly. Her throat was feeling normal again as was her face, she could move her eyes to look up and see him but ended up squinting at the light of the building arcane ball in his palm.

"Why are you doing this?" it came out in barely a whisper.

He pulled out an unsealed letter from his robes with his free hand and said, "Because you lied."

She shook her head, to indicate she had know idea what he was talking about.

"We intercepted this letter from a courier near Whiterun—he said that it was from a Stormcloack camp. It's addressed to you."

Then she understood why they thought she had lied. She _didn't_ know any Stormcloacks though! Why would one be trying to write to her? She opened her mouth to protest but the threat of paralysis only grew as the green light of energy intensified. She bit back a yelp and closed her eyes.

"Get up," the same Thalmor commanded sternly, "You should be able to now."

Her legs felt less stiff and she used her back to lift herself, it was quite difficult with her wrists shackled and she struggled to stand fully. No one tired to help her.

Once she was standing the light in the palm of his hand evaporated, "Follow me."

She trudged forward with uncertainty. One of the armored Justiciars walked behind her and the the other two in front with the wizard leading. She was certain though that if she didn't do as they commanded, they would kill her. The Thalmor were known to be ruthless against those who they thought opposed them.

It was dark out now, the last strip of sunlight had faded behind the Throat of the World and the moon was taking the sky, glowing even—which cast a fair visible light on the land. Did they intent to walk all night?

A wolf howled.

She stopped walking, knowing there was never just one wolf in the woods around Riverwood. They traveled in packs and they were attracted to noises, including footsteps.

"Keep going," the wizard commanded and ignited his hand in flame. She couldn't tell if it was to threaten her into obeying or in preparation for any wolves they might come across.

She reluctantly stepped forward a few steps and kept a look out for any movement from the woods around her. A rustle of brush leaves came from her right and she froze. The Justiciars had magic and armor, she had nothing—not even her hands to protect herself if she were attacked.

A howl sounded again—closer this time.

"I told you to—" the wizard was cut off as a large body piled into his, snarling and biting. Two more howls sounded in the immediate area. The armored Justiciars pulled out their weapons and advanced on the creature.

Dorthe's mind raced and before she thought of all the cons to her decision, she bolted to the left as fast as her legs would carry her.

A second wolf jumped from the brush and took a bite at her leg. She gave a scream and twisted out of the way, nearly falling since she couldn't balance herself. Instead she stumbled but kept up her sprint as the wolf chased after her.

She was almost to the river, she could hear some of the rapids ahead—it was the river that ran right by Riverwood, behind her home though it flowed the opposite direction. It moved faster than she could run from The Thalmor or the wolves. The wolf leapt forward and grabbed a bit of the skirt of her dress; the material ripped and she was pulled backward a bit, hitting the ground.

The wolf went for her throat but suddenly froze with it's jaw hanging open, it's sharp teeth dangerously close. The whole body of it was illuminated in a tint of dark green.

She realized at once, it had been hit with paralysis magic like she had been. The Thalmor were coming.

Panicking she rolled herself athwart the forest floor, not minding the sharp jabs of rocks and twigs—she could roll no further when she landed in the river. The water was chilly, but she didn't let it dissuade her from using her legs to push herself further into the current. It finally grabbed her, and she kicked to the surface to grab a breath of air. Water rushed past her ears and she could barely see or hear the Thalmor Justiciars shouting at her from the bank while the current swept her downstream.


	4. Mila

Flames rose; the log underneath them crackled, and a few ashes spilled outward. A girl nearby avoided the cinders and leveled her gaze at the fire, it was a suitable place to focus her eyes on while her real focus was internal. Her fingers were clenched around the handle of a rough mug only half-full of ale.

He had not returned.

She had waited.

She refused to cry about it.

There were not many people at the Bannered Mare after the drinking hour, so she could have let a few tears fall but even then she refused.

Perhaps he had forgotten her?

She was fourteen when he had proclaimed his love.

She was fifteen when he was sent off to join the Imperial Legion.

She was nineteen now.

And he should have returned. If not for her—at least the high-to-do wedding of the Jarl's daughter. His family would have made sure to notify him of the event.

But he hadn't even returned for that.

"Why such the melancholy my dear Mila?"

Her expression must have betrayed her thoughts. She stared blankly at the flames before transferring the gaze to the bard who had posed the question.

"Not now, Mikael."

He merely grinned at her brush-off and plucked a few strings on his lute whilst leaning against one of the wooden pillars of the inn, "I'm sure I could cheer you up with a song."

She doubted a song could mend a broken heart but judging by his cocky tone and posture he wouldn't be dissuaded of his claim.

Mikael had always been nice to Mila when she was young—she suspected later that it was to get on her mother's good side. However, after his years of trying to romance her mother to no avail, he cooled down in demeanor, less friendly—she figured he had understood she was the only obstacle in the way of him winning Carlotta Valentia's love and resented her for it. In recent times, however, his disposition toward her had turned exceedingly kind and cheery.

He played a lovely intro and started singing.

Mikael did have the voice of an Aureal, and whether or not she approved of the fact, the sound of it made her perk up just a bit—she took another swig of her ale.

One of the townsfolk that was still in the main room at the late hour stood and swung his ale cup back and forth merrily along with Mikael's song. Mila absently tapped her foot to the beat and when he was done, Mikael smiled with satisfaction. He took a seat next to her on the bench and leaned in further to speak than what was necessary.

"Does your mother know you are out?"

Instead of reacting by moving away, she instead leaned forward with a frown, proving to him she wasn't intimidated—"It's none of her business how late I stay out—I'm a grown woman."

"That you are," Mikael agreed and his eyes dropped below her face, across her body and back as quick as they left but not without Mila noticing.

"It's none of your business either," she snapped as a deep blush appeared on her cheeks and she scooted away, another whole seat between them.

"There's only one reason a beautiful lass would be drinking alone long after the sun has set," the bard went on with an assured tone. She just raised her brow with doubt. A look took to the Nord's eyes she wasn't used to seeing. Sadness. "Love-scorned."

She opened her mouth with surprise, "How would you kn—?"

"Your mother put me through a heartache so deep I couldn't bring myself to sing for a whole month."

The words were sad and poetic, the kind of smooth-talking she had come to expect from the bard in her years knowing him. She remembered her mother's point of view of the past—one where a young, single widow tried to provide for her family but kept on being harassed by men. Her mother had claimed Mikael was the most bothersome of lot—even went as so far to publish a book about all the eligible ladies of Whiterun which only brought more suitors and more pestering from men across Skyrim.

Men thought her mother was beautiful, a trait to which many in Whiterun said Mila had developed as she grew. Her Imperial Blood gave her skin more color than the pale Nords of Skyrim. Working outside added even more color—a shade of pale pink that was quite charming. She had her mother's luscious dark-oak colored locks and matching wide eyes.

She didn't know how to respond to Mikael; she had never considered his feelings on the matter before but didn't necessarily feel bad for him either—she was somewhat aware of his reputation and figured he could have moved on quicker than most men that her mother had rejected.

She took another swig of her drink and looked away, not bearing to see that sadness that mirrored her own—no matter if it was only a ruse to have her feel sorry for him and let her guard down.

"That Battle-Born lad you were always running about with—was he not supposed to return for Lady Dagnessa's wedding?"

Mila went rigid at the mention of Lars and then shrugged without returning her gaze to the bard, "He did not but it would have been for nothing—It was cancelled until further notice. The lady was abandoned at the alter, which isn't surprise though as she is a wretched woman and any groom would rather run away than to be joined with the likes of her."

She caught a sigh in her throat, "Besides, I doubt Lars has much time to attend weddings or see dear friends while he is in the Imperial Legion."

She didn't mean to sound bitter on the last part, but it was evident. She was done talking about Lars and his failure to return to Whiterun, however thoughts about the subject had and would continue to plague her thoughts.

"My dear, you're mug is nearly empty—allow me to buy you another fill," the bard held out his hand in offer.

Mila wasn't ready to go home yet, although she should—her mother would chide her for staying out so late and worry that the lass wouldn't wake in time to mind the vegetable stand. It had been a long day, a long week, but she didn't feel tired, just miserable and contemplative.

After a moment, she acquiesced and let the bard take her mug and give it to the proprietor to fill again.

"BARD!"

They both looked to see the other patron raise his cup, "How about another song?"

Mikael nodded and gestured he'd be just a few moments.

A song would be more welcome than the current silence but for buckling of the logs under the fire. She rather did like music and always had. If she wasn't needed to help her mother with the business, she would have considered joining the bard's college.

"Here you are milady," Mikael handed her the mug that was heavy and damp with more drink.

She thanked him as she should. Just because she didn't care for the man didn't mean she had to be rude.

"And now for Ragnar the Red..." Mikael adjusted his lute and began to play. She had heard this song a hundred times and let her mind enjoy the tune without paying mind to the words—as the lyrics were of an unpleasant nature.

She lifted the mug to her lips and noticed straight away it wasn't ale, but mead—which was a bit more costly than she could afford. She had it before, for her eighteenth birthday, when it was the first time she had tried it. It was sweeter than she remembered—but then again, there were many types of mead, and all were sweeter than ales. She was far from a connoisseur and decided to just enjoy the sweet taste as she rarely got to have it.

As she took another sip, she began to feel supremely pleasant. She laid her chin in her hand and studied the bard. It was rather kind of Mikael to buy her mead, the drink was pricy and she figured he didn't make much coin working as a bard. He was a sweet man under all his strut and slyness-and though he was many years her senior, she could understand why women thought him attractive. He was tall, with blue eyes and fair hair as most Nords, but he was also talented.

Mila's eyes fluttered a bit, hit with sudden lethargy. She hadn't felt so tired a moment before, but the late hour combined with the drink, music, and cozy heat of the fire must have made her drowsy.

Mikael's song ended and the patron clapped, tossing a gold coin to the bard before departing for the night.

Perhaps it was time for her to return home too. Her head lolled out of her hand and she barely caught herself from tipping forward. She saw a blurry form approach her, "You don't look too well."

What did they mean by that? She was only tired...but she hadn't even yawned.

She only smiled, "I'm perf—perfectly fine, Mikael." Something felt so good in her, the alcohol certainly helped but she could handle a cup of ale without feeling so giddy—she felt light-of-heart all of a sudden despite the sadness she had been feeling only moments before.

"Thank you again for the mead," she stood and used the wooden pillar to balance herself. The world was suddenly a-whirl with color—orange and yellow from the glow of the fire casting off every object in the room. She had never felt like this before.

Her vision straightened out long enough to see Mikael grinning with amusement.

"What are you smiling about?" she returned the grin and kept a hold on the pillar as she leaned outward to steal a string-pluck on his lute. Her balancing skills were rapidly declining as that extra-sweet mead worked its way through her body.

As she was asking, the door of the entrance to the Bannered Mare had opened to another late-night visitor.

The wind was bit chilly, and it swirled inside-clashing against the heat. It had somewhat of a sobering effect and so did the person who had joined them, "He's smiling like a fox about to take a hen."

The comment was stated as a cold, amused, fact. Mikael immediately stepped away from Mila and gave a shallow bow.

Mila's attention wavered and her hold on the pillar slipped. She tripped forward and was caught in one arm of the newcomer and then put back to balance. She held onto his arm for further stability, fearing the world would slip away if she let go.

He didn't seem to mind. His form was a bit blurry due to the lingering effects of drink. She didn't understand why, but something about him was familiar. He was slim, she could tell by the lack of brawn in his upper arm. His clothes—a dark fur-lined cloak—were clean and so was he—no stench of staleness like most of those in who lived in the Plains District.

"What do you mean?" she frowned—hit with the same wave of lethargy from before and sunk further into him without meaning to. She gave small groan at the way the room spun around her.

"You were just prey to him, a plaything for him to pleasure himself with," her anchor answered and took a deep breath through his nose then turned an eye to the bard, "Moon sugar?"

"I was just going to have a bit of fun, my thane."

_Thane? _The word kept her from nearly passing out.

"Get out of my sight, _Bard_, before I tell the guard you've been drugging drinks with filthy Khajiit intoxicants."

Why would a thane be in the Bannered Mare at such a late hour? How could Mikael be so disgusting? How long did the effects of moon sugar last? Her mind was swimming with questions, dizzy, and tired. She tried to ask, but a slurred sound came out—incoherent to anyone listening and finally, all that dissolved moon sugar that had made the mead taste so sweet, and which had made her feel so good—rendered her unconscious.


	5. Aventus

Blood trailed the length of the sword, contrasting against the dark steely green of refined malachite, until it finally dripped off the tip and onto the wooden floor. Other drops followed until a substantial puddle of crimson formed. The owner cared not; it wasn't his duty to cover up the evidence of death—only cause it.

He didn't look particularly menacing, for being an agent of such harrowing circumstance.

Aventus had always had an earnest face, sincere-looking eyes, and a boyish smile. It was easy for him to be trusted by those who had never met him. His marks never saw how truly cold he could be until seconds before they died.

The body of the latest target lay on the floor just an arm length away from the blood. It drew no guilt nor remorse from him.

He often wondered where or how he had become so calculating and uncouth but he was kidding himself and knew it happened when he was forced to return to Honor Hall Orphanage when he was twelve years old_. _

_After his Black Sacrament failed, after the guards of Windhelm evicted him from his home, after Grelod the Kind had nearly beaten him senseless and refused him food for three days—he had stood in doorway of her bedroom with a rough-sewn cloth pillow, quietly sniffling back tears while fresh bruises spotted his sides. In one decisive movement he shoved the pillow over the old woman's face and held it with all his might. She struggled a bit but his fury gave him strength and he held fast. He was doing this not only for himself but for Hroar, Runa, Samuel, and Francois. They all had suffered enough under Grelod's cruelty and he was rightfully ending it. _

_Once the old woman lay still, he went back to his cot and had the most restful sleep of his life._

He swiped his sword across the bed covering to cleanse it, as best as it could be cleansed until he found a water source to truly wash it.

Movement caught the corner of his eye. He turned fully but couldn't ascertain any form—human nor animal that could have caused it. The sun was setting and the light was becoming scarcer as thin traces of it came through the window.

It could have been a trick of the mind's eye too.

Another shadow shifted and he raised his sword, ready for an attack—spinning around.

Nothing.

He gave a sigh and pushed back the hood of his cloak, rushing a hand through his dark, neck-length, hair in mild frustration.

Sometimes his imagination got the best of him. Of course shadows would shift as the sun settled in the west. However the way they moved seemed unnatural as far as shadows went.

With his sword sheathed, and the mark eradicated—the only thing left to do was find something to prove to the brotherhood that the deed had been done.

Nazir had said the mark owned an enchanted ring made of rubies set in gold. Aventus kneeled next to the body and lifted an arm, searching the fingers for the jewelry.

Nothing.

He checked the other hand and it was the same outcome.

His eyes gazed over the room with consideration—there on the desk was a lock box. He plucked a lock-pick form his pocket and went to work on it. After a few turns, the lock forced open with a _click_ and the cover popped open. There were gold coins, rare jewels, but no actual jewelry.

_By the Nightmother, where could it be?_

His window of opportunity to get the job done and escape was closing, and Nazir had been adamant on Aventus obtaining the ring. They never usually were required to bring tokens of a kill back, and it struck Aventus odd that this time it was part of the contract.

A sudden shine of red reflected off the wall and Aventus turned to see a last ray of sun, hitting through a piece of jewelry atop a small wardrobe. He grinned at his luck of finding it near the last moment.

As he reached out for it, something so quick and forceful flew into the floorboards next to his hand that splintered the wood, he reeled backward—keeping his balance and unsheathing this sword.

It had been an arrow, shot so precise it had meant to miss his hand and act as a warning.

He viewed the length of the room to see no one. He looked again to the arrow, the fletching pointed at a near vertical angle and he slowly looked toward the ceiling where he saw a figure clad in black leather, sitting in the rafters and holding a bow—another arrow knocked and pointed straight at him.

"That's not yours," they said, matter-of-factly.

The voice was distinctly female, young, and Nord-accented—muffled slightly.

Her figure was crouched, most of her face was covered except for her eyes—beyond that detail he couldn't see much besides that she was built to sit in the shadows.

"Neither is it yours," he replied coldly, "and since I dispatched the owner, it is now mine."

"The brotherhood doesn't _steal_ objects. It only steals lives."

He wasn't wearing anything that identified him as such. He swallowed, "What makes you think I am in the Dark Brotherhood?—I could just be a simple mercenary. "

"I have never seen a simple mercenary dispatch so neatly—you kill with an assassin's skill."

He smiled slightly, "Thanks."

"You're welcome—but no matter, that ring is already spoken for."

"Who speaks for it?" Aventus demanded to know.

"The Thieves Guild."

He should have known that's what she was, though he was expecting a name. She rocked back on one heel without taking aim off him, "And to be honest I am a bit upset you killed the poor soul. Hopefully _I_ won't be blamed for that—" she gestured a finger toward the body below.

"Yet you threaten _my_ life," he frowned.

"If I stick an arrow through your hand you won't _die_," she said in a lighter tone that almost betrayed laughter, "Though you may not be able to hold a sword or pick locks for a while. Now pick that shiny up and hand it to me."

"Come down here and get it yourself," he taunted. He sheathed his sword to show he wasn't going to attack her with it if she should.

The room was darkened now, as the sun had fully set. It was hard to actually make her out as she blended so well with the twilight. She withdrew her aim and returned the arrow back to the quiver fastened behind her.

He could hear the creaks of the rafters as she descended, landed onto the bed, and the shifting of the leather she wore as she bent over to feel for where she thought the ring was.

As she moved, he had been thinking of why two guilds were going after the same object. It may have been that the person who initially made the contract with Nazir was also a client of the guild and had booked similar jobs. Perhaps the Thieves Guild was the back-up in case the Brotherhood failed. He inwardly scoffed at the thought of failing—he was too thorough to let that happen—then again here was this _thief_ trying to take something he was told to obtain.

Aventus leaped forward and plowed into her, knocking her backward and her bow from her grasp. She gasped and gave a shout of surprised outrage. He put all his weight onto her and reached for a glass dagger in his boot—intending to end the nuisance. She struggled violently, hitting him any way she could with her free hand. He managed to grab her wrist and pin her arm above her head.

In a movement that only spoke of how agile and capable the young woman was, she swung her hips up and wrapped her legs around his torso, forcing his arms tight at his sides. The position caused him to lose balance and tip backwards until his back had fallen against the floor and she was on top of him in a straddle.

"How dare you—" he hissed, but was pulled up by the shirt at his neck with a vicious tug and he felt her lips brush against his.

_Kissed?_

For once, he was too stunned to speak as the thief finally laughed and heartily, which caused them to both shake slightly. He was briefly caught in the memory of the last time someone had kissed him so long ago.

"_I have a secret," he confessed in a whisper as the Riften Guard carried away the body of Grelod the Kind. All the adults had determined the headmistress had expired due to natural causes. He didn't know why he whispered his crime—perhaps just so someone knew. The only one near enough was Runa Fair-Shield, a fellow orphan that bore a black-eye from when Grelod threw a bowl at the child days prior when she had asked for more gruel. Runa was standing against the wall trying contain a smile at the passing body. His words caught her attention._

"_What is it, Aventus?"_

"_I smothered Grelod to death last night," it wasn't an apology—just a fact._

_He didn't know what to expect but certainly didn't expect the blonde girl two years his junior to lift up on her tip- toes and peck him on the lips in gratitude. _

The woman of the present, her laughter brought his thoughts back.

"Aventus Aretino."

She spoke his name as if she knew him, but he certainly didn't know her. Before he could mention that fact, she hauled back and punched him the face so hard all he could see was black.


End file.
